


Framed

by meaninglessblah



Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bad Things Happen, Anal Sex, Blackmail, Blow Jobs in a Car, Civilian Tim Drake, Community: dckinkmeme, DC Kinkmeme fill, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mob Boss Roman Sionis, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Photography, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Sex Tapes, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex, Voyeurism, prostitute Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Tim’s getting tired of spending his nights freezing his ass off lying around on concrete rooftops and dangling from icy-iron fire escape railings. His fingers feel half-numb where they’re wrapped around the lens of his camera, his oversized sweatshirt doing next to nothing to keep out the October chill.How hard can it be to seduce one goody-two-shoes cop?(DC Kinkmeme fill)
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd
Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906351
Comments: 7
Kudos: 148





	Framed

**Author's Note:**

> This was a [DC Kinkmeme](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/) fill, but I got distracted adding in Tim and accidentally took the focus off JayDick. I might have to come back and add some chapters/sequel later on. 
> 
> Enjoy this fic for now, and as always, please mind the tags.

Tim’s getting tired of spending his nights freezing his ass off lying around on concrete rooftops and dangling from icy-iron fire escape railings. His fingers feel half-numb where they’re wrapped around the lens of his camera, his oversized sweatshirt doing next to nothing to keep out the October chill. 

How fucking hard can it be to seduce one goody-two-shoes cop? 

He smacks his gum and shifts with a groan to ease the pins and needles trickling into his kneecaps. His elbows feel skinned raw with all the positioning and repositioning them on the lip of the building he’s currently sprawled out on. His shirt’s ridden up sometime over the last hour, and he can feel the chill stabbing into his exposed flesh. Tim reaches back to shove it down and grumbles as he realigns the eyepiece. 

He’s going to need to have a word with Jason about _angles_ and _framing._

Jason had remembered to throw back the curtains this time at least, under the guise of admiring the neon-spackled facades of the brick building Tim is occupying, if Tim’s lip reading is still up to scratch. For whatever reason, Officer Grayson hadn’t called him on the obvious lie, but Tim can’t decide if the guy is just gullible and lucky, or deceptively aware of the shit Jason’s pulling on him. 

Either way, Officer Grayson hasn’t touched the underage prostitute all fucking night, and Tim can’t feel his goddamn toes. 

He wants this job over and done with. This is their third hotel room, in their fifth hotel, and Tim is becoming increasingly suspicious that Grayson is catching wise to Roman’s plot. It’s either that, or Tim has to concede that there’s one decent human being in Roman’s city, and he can’t bring himself to reconcile what a shining beacon of goodwill like that is doing in _Gotham,_ of all places. 

This is Roman’s turf, and like the man himself, Gotham is tainted with the stench of immorality from it’s pretty jagged skyline to it’s seedy criminal underbelly. Gotham is as much Roman’s property as Jason is, strolling slowly around that hotel room Tim’s got firmly locked in the frame of his lens. They’re all just here to do a job, and then Tim can clear his fucking debt and go home. 

Back to his drug-addled cripple father and his shitty grades and his dead-end future. Selling photographs with the sort of artistry that would land someone with his talents in the MOMA, that are going to waste in the hands of two-bit mob bosses. Tim’s made a short career of trading seedy photos of Gotham’s rich elite in rundown hotel rooms that would make Avedon swoon. 

There’s a hell of a lot of personality you can catch in a four-by-six of an old money Gothamite balls deep in a Park Row prostitute. Tim doesn’t like to brag - especially not in association with a scumbag like Sionis - but he’s not blind to it being _his_ photos that skyrocketed Roman up the political food chain. 

There’d been a market, and Tim had filled it. 

He’d just tried selling photos of the wrong guy to the wrong people. He hadn’t properly scoped out the buyers eager for incriminating photos of new mob socialite Roman Sionis entertaining his favourite underage hooker. Now Tim was paying for it in sub-fifty body aches and nights spent tailing Roman’s newest pet project. 

Tim doesn’t dislike Officer Grayson, he doesn’t. Does he think the guy’s delusional trying to scrub the grime from Gotham one good deed at a time? Absolutely. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t admire the man’s optimism. 

It’s why he’s so undecided on whether Grayson is playing along with the charade because he genuinely thinks Jason is some down-on-his-luck streetwalker looking for a bed to (actually) sleep in, or because he knows exactly the sort of stunts Jason is pulling draping himself over the pressed bedcovers and isn’t willing to bite. Stringing him - and Tim, and Roman - along for the ride while Jason simpers and tries to get him to taste the honeypot. 

The guy has the mental fortitude of one of Ivy’s dosed up thugs. Tim hasn’t seen a single seed of immorality, of indecision, of ‘just one touch too low’ or ‘one longer-than-strictly professional linger’ in Grayson since Roman set the pair of them on this goose chase. 

Tim can tell Jason’s getting just as agitated as he is about Grayson’s oblivious (or intentional) stonewalling. He can mark the teen’s frustration in the receding skirt length and plunging neckline. Jason had even busted out the fishnets and lacy red panties a few nights ago, draping himself wrong-way-round on a chair in a downtown hotel room. Firm thighs splayed around the worn wood and arms crossed innocently over the wooden back, all that lace on full display. 

Tim had gotten a few snaps for his personal collection that night. Not that he’d use the material for anything as debase as a quick and dirty wank, but he can admire the artistry to Jason’s outfits. One creator to another, Tim appreciates the effort Jason puts into framing his assets, and the teen clearly knows what he’s working with. 

He can frame his ass in a miniskirt like it’s no one’s business. Dumbass just can’t frame twenty square feet of cheaply carpeted hotel suite like his life depends on it. Maybe his life doesn’t depend on it like Tim’s does. Maybe Roman’s too fond of his little squeeze to threaten to do incomprehensibly agonising things to his ballsac while he’s got Tim literally dangling from cuffs. 

He’s pretty sure his rotator cuff will never fully recover from that little incident. But Tim had walked away a portfolio of incriminating images lighter with his life in-tact, so that has to count for something. He’d sold his soul to the devil in a Gucci couture mask, but at least he’s doing what he loves. 

Which is shifting across the coarse concrete on his elbows so he can get a decent fucking shot of one underage prostitute draped suggestively next to one stupid officer who couldn’t leave Roman well enough alone. Tim’s never hated chartreuse drapes more in his entire life, but he’d cheer to see the damn things spontaneously combust if it would give him decent contrast for the image of Jason carefully maneouvering himself towards Grayson’s lap. 

He’s still fully clothed, and so is Grayson - though ‘fully’ is a matter of perspective when it comes to any of Jason’s street clothes. It’s not the shot Roman wants, not as obviously incriminating as the crimelord had demanded when he’d so kindly offered Tim an ultimatum. 

But it’s _a_ shot, and that’s the best Tim’s got of Grayson in a mildly compromising condition since Jason started seducing the idiot. 

He stands from where he’s sitting on the single queen bed next to Jason when the younger’s hand wraps condolingly around his knee - not high enough, not _good_ enough - to crouch in front of the minibar. Tim can almost feel Jason scream with frustration when Grayson offers him some food, because he looks thinner than when he saw him last, has he eaten recently? Is he thirsty, does he need some water? 

It’s almost sickening, how charismatically considerate this asshole is. Tim just wants his photos. Can’t he give them that much? 

Jason rolls over on the bed, hooks his knees over the end and opens them wide as he props himself up on his elbows. Makes sure to arch his hips up a little suggestively as he cocks his head and gives Grayson a coy, teasing line about being filled already. 

The puns are going to be the death of Tim. 

But Grayson laughs, bright and beaming, and it’s the sort of genuine mirth that makes guilt coil deep in Tim’s gut, makes the lens lower an inch from their mark as Grayson presses the minibar shut with the soft seal of light. 

Then he’s moving across the room, and Tim snaps into rigid pose, tracking him. If he can get even a shot of Grayson standing over Jason when he’s positioned like that, they might have something to work with. The expressions can be doctored if they need to, Tim’s happy to sacrifice the hours to make it happen. Whatever will get him off this figurative and - if he fails - literal hook. 

He holds his breath as Grayson crosses the carpet, advancing towards Jason on the bed, and _yes, nearly, just a little closer, centre on the chartreuse frame-_

Grayson bypasses the lounging hooker entirely to duck into the ensuite, and Tim watches Jason throw his head skyward in an exasperated prayer. The door clicks shut behind him, and Tim watches Jason stare at the panel of wood for a long moment before he rolls up to his feet and snatches his purse closer, pawing through it. 

Tim had expected it, but he’s still feeling a little blueballed when Jason props open the window to rest his elbows on the sill and light a smoke. It’s their agreed upon cue to call a close to the meetup, to signal that this shit’s not going anywhere tonight, and they need to regroup and work out how they’re going to incriminate Gotham’s latest upstanding officer some other time. 

Tim curses and lowers his camera. 

Grayson emerges from the ensuite as Jason’s snuffing out the cigarette, and Tim idly watches him chastise the teen as he dismantles his gear and packs it away. It’s still bewildering to watch the cop lecture an underage prostitute on the poor life decision of smoking. It makes Tim’s jealousy complex flare to see the concern on Grayson’s face, to know that Jason’s getting the man’s sympathy when he’s just as culpable as Tim. 

But Jason’s the pretty one, with the killer thighs that can ride a john for hours, and Tim’s just the kid behind the camera. 

Tim zips up his case with a bitter taste on his tongue and fishes his burner cell out of his jeans pocket as he watches Grayson say his farewells, assure Jason that he’ll pay for the full night’s use of the room, and Jason should get some shuteye. Last week he’d offered Jason his jacket to cover his bare collarbones when he’d picked him up from the corner. It makes Tim feel sick with envy. 

The cell bleats once as Tim shoves it into the crook of his shoulder, pushing to his feet as he watches Jason tidy the room, stalling while Grayson sees himself out at reception. The guy likes to chat, so Jason’s stuck until their good Samaritan officer leaves the lobby, pacing like a caged animal. 

“Listening,” Tim promises the man on the other end of the line, and kicks out the brick he’d used to prop open the fire escape door as he descends into the rooftop stairwell. 

“Anything worth my time?” the low, familiar murmur returns, and Tim’s hand clenches around the handle of his case, numb fingers aching as he swallows his gum in a sharp gulp. 

“Still don’t have what you’re after,” Tim answers after a moment of careful contemplation, and hurries onwards when the crimelord grunts his disappointment. “But I got some tasteful shots of your boy.” 

That seems to pique his interest, but Tim doesn’t listen to the spiel about how he expects results, and need he remind Tim he’s in no position to jerk him around. How Tim oughtn’t _disappoint_ him. 

Join the queue, Tim thinks spitefully, and kicks open the front lobby door to cross the sidewalk and slide into the sleek black Rolls parked out front. The door clicks shut behind him when Tim takes the leather bench seat opposite the crimelord, and he exhales into the sudden stifling silence, propping his case up on his lap. 

He hates this part of his nights the most. The part where he suddenly finds his shoes immensely interesting and Roman dissects the little shrimp of a former Gotham elite - _‘Drake, that’s an_ old _money name, isn’t it?’_ \- occupying his immaculately clean Rolls Royce. He’s sipping a whiskey, the muffled, deafening quiet broken only by the sound of his slow swallows as Tim fiddles with the zipper teeth on his case. 

Jason joins them after much preamble, slotting into the space under Roman’s extended arm with practiced ease as the car pulls away from the curb. 

“Alright, boys,” Roman says, and flicks a few fingers in Tim’s direction, setting down his glass. “Show me what you’ve got to show for yourselves.” 

Sweet FA, Tim wants to say, but he dutifully extracts his camera and begins flicking through the digital roll until he alights on his first decent shot of the evening. Then he passes the device over to Roman and sits on his hands. 

The man grunts softly to himself as he churns through the shots, only barely invested in the disappointing photos. Jason gives it half his attention, gaze lingering on the shots of himself like he’s dissecting himself in a mirror, searching for ways to improve his acting. 

Roman must reach some of Tim’s more Jason-centric shots, because his expression lights with intrigue, a cheerful little noise lifting from his throat. Jason leans closer to inspect the tiny screen too, and Tim watches the pair of them as Roman tilts the camera towards him. 

“Can’t for the life of me understand how anyone can let that piece of ass go to waste,” he says around a leer as Jason’s green-blue eyes slide over the images. Then Roman turns to Tim, beckoning him into the conversation. “Don’t you think my boy’s got one hell of an ass, kid?” 

Tim nods dutifully and murmurs, “Yes, sir.” 

Roman snorts. “Course you do, kid, I can see your muse right here in these delectable shots.” He pauses, considering something, and then asks Jason, toying with the hair at his nape, “You sure Officer Nosy’s gay?” 

“He is,” Jason confirms, drawing his eyes away from the camera to meet Roman’s when he lowers the competing view. “Or at the very least interested. I’ll get him, Roman, I promise. Just need some time.” 

Tim gets only the barest warning before Roman tosses the camera in his direction, scrambling to catch the discarded device as Roman lifts his now free hand to stroke Jason’s cheekbone. 

“Daddy doesn’t have unlimited time, baby boy,” he croons, and Tim focuses on checking the camera over to avoid watching the pair of them. That hand drops to Jason’s thigh, coaxing his knees open as Tim studiously toggles his viewer settings. “I need that pig trussed up and served with a nice big apple down his throat, understand me?” 

Tim recognises Jason’s breathy, placating tone when he replies back, “Yes, daddy.” 

“That’s my boy,” Roman croons in a low growl, and leans over to reclaim his whiskey, spreading his knees wide enough that he nearly kicks Tim’s ankles where they’re folded against the door. Tim still retracts them as much as he’s able, making himself small and insignificant, unseen in the corner of the cabin as Jason assumes position between Roman’s calves. 

Tim doesn’t see the zipper coming undone, but he hears it nonetheless; he’s seen Jason work enough times that he doesn’t need the visual to know how the teen looks lapping at the head of Roman’s cock where it peeks from his tented briefs. He hears the rustle of fabric, the ministrations of Jason working his way down the shaft with that slick pink tongue as Tim exhales shakily and tries to focus on anything other than the sight Jason makes beneath the crimelord. 

He nearly drops the camera in his surprise when Roman barks, “Hey, kid.” 

Tim’s head snaps up, words stalling at the sight of Jason studiously working his throat open around Roman’s cockhead, dark hair caught in his vice-like grip, bobbing rhythmically. “Yes, sir?” 

“You like taking shots of my boy,” Roman croons with pride, and Tim keeps his gaze fixed on the way Jason doesn’t even acknowledge the praise, focused wholeheartedly on pleasing the mobster. “You take some decent shots. How about you get a few more of my boy in his best positions?” 

Tim swallows, grip flexing where it’s cupped around the base of the camera, and takes a second to school his reeling anxiety. Roman’s watching him though, so Tim casts the back of Jason’s head one last look and reaches for his lens. 

“Good choice,” Roman mumbles, and groans when Jason pulls back to suck on the head, smaller hands wrapping around the base. “Love your work, baby boy.” 

Jason hums his gratitude at that, tilting his head back to stare up at Roman with those gorgeous eyes, and Tim’s snapping the shot on autopilot before he can even think to ask Roman what exactly he wanted him to focus on. 

But he gets no immediate reprimand as Jason slides back down towards Roman’s charcoal-grey trousers, so Tim snaps three more shots of the way Jason’s plush lips stretch wide around the crimelord’s girth before Roman interrupts him. 

“Get a shot of my cock in his throat,” Roman instructs, and Tim doesn’t even have to reset the shot before Jason shifts a little higher up on his knees, bracing his palms on Roman’s clothed thighs to ease his head down around the intrusion. 

Tim catches every glorious millimetre of Roman’s cock pressing a bulge in the soft skin of Jason’s throat, mesmerised by the torturous slide as Jason’s eyelashes flutter and water, and then his hasty retreat. Gets some nicely framed images of Jason’s gasping lips, slick with saliva, when he sits back on his heels to catch his breath and descend again. 

“What a fucking dream,” Roman croons when Jason’s nose is nestled in his crotch again, the passing streetlights playing like amber fire over Jason’s hunched shoulder blades where they’re exposed. “Keep taking me, baby, I wanna hear you choke.” 

Jason doesn’t disappoint, a slick, pained half-retch splitting the silence of the car, framed by the staccato click of Tim’s shutter as he captures the roll of nausea over Jason’s handsome features. The way he holds himself down on Roman’s cock, drool sliding down what’s visibly left of the shaft as he suffocates and mewls. 

He pulls off with a ragged, gulping inhalation when Roman lifts his hand off Jason’s hair, coughing to clear his throat, so Tim focused on the press of his bulging thighs against his fishnets and the peek of lacy panties where his skirt rides up over those crooked legs. All of it framed by Roman’s dark trousers. 

Tim almost regrets it when Roman beckons Jason to his feet, steadying him when the car lurches and blurs Tim’s next shot. He manages a clear impression of Roman’s ringed palm on Jason’s narrow waist on the next try. 

“Hey, shutterbug,” Roman drawls as Jason hitches his skirt up to his hips and straddles Roman’s spread thighs, “get me a nice shot of those expensive panties. My boy always looks good in red.” 

He slaps Jason’s ass to punctuate the sentiment, drawing a soft yelp from the teen. Tim watches the flesh swell pink when Roman shifts his hands to grope his cheeks, juxtaposed against that bright red lace, and memorialises the sight. 

Roman gives him a grin when Jason grinds down against his thighs, tracking over his jawline to shove two fingers into Jason’s mouth while Tim gets a collection of close ups and angles of Jason’s position. He could almost put together a life-sized replica of Jason with how many shots he’s gotten. Might still get the chance, if he can develop them discreetly once Roman drops him home. 

The crimelord doesn’t waste much more time to reach down and pull the lace aside, pulling his slicked fingers from Jason’s puffy red lips to shove into his ass in one unbroken motion. Jason curses and rocks up against Roman’s front, nails biting into his shoulders as he adjusts to the sudden intrusion. He doesn’t complain though, even fluttering that pretty hole for Tim’s camera as Roman spears the fingers into him. 

“Look at that,” Roman croons, and Tim obediently adjusts his lens to clear the shot when Roman pulls his fingers back to tug on Jason’s rim. “Already ready for me, baby.” 

“Yes, always ready for you, waiting for you,” Jason replies, and it sounds like a practiced line in Tim’s ears. Roman laps it up, easing a third finger into Jason’s hole as the teen lowers his forehead to rest on the crimelord’s shoulder. “God, yes, please, daddy.” 

When Roman withdraws his fingers and digs a condom out of his pocket, Jason deepens his sit, hovering compliantly as Roman rolls the latex over his leaking cock. 

“Oh no, baby,” Roman teases, and Jason’s gaze meets his, sparked with confusion. “We’ve got a guest. I want some photos of that pretty face of yours when I fuck you. Something I can look back on while I get you to suck me off beneath my desk.” 

Tim’s mouth feels dry, his gut clenched tight at the imagery those words paint. Jason would look immaculate beneath the mahogany, lashes long and pleading, lips stretched wide- 

Jason grins, bright and blazing, drawing Tim from his reverie as he hooks his knee over Roman’s lap and turns around. As soon as his face is hidden from the crimelord, that smile dissipates, his features drawing into concentration as he lines up his entrance with Roman’s bobbing cock. 

From the way Jason’s neck arches up when Roman nudges into him, it’s a tight fit. He watches the bob of Jason’s Adam’s apple when he swallows, easing down into Roman’s lap, those huge hands swamping his small hips. 

“Fuck, I’ll never get tired of this,” Roman sighs when Jason’s settling, head hung and panting softly as he adjusts to the feeling. Tim sees when the crimelord grins, jerking his hips up in a sharp snap to have Jason crying out. “Gotta get a recording of that pretty voice too. Gonna get the whole package deal saved to my laptop. Watch you whenever I get bored in board meetings. My very own private sextape.” 

“Tell me how good I look,” Jason says breathily, “with his cock in me, shutterbug.” 

It takes until Roman’s amused gaze lifts to Tim for him to realise he’s being spoken to. The camera lowers, his jaw working a few times as he summons words. 

“Good,” he rasps, and clears his throat. Looks back down the eyepiece so he can put some distance between himself and the scene before him. A protective barrier of glass and mirrors. “Really good. So good. Can I- can he- pull his cock out?” 

Roman’s hand shifts on Jason’s hip, sliding down to palm his cock where it pushes uncomfortably against the tight confines of the skirt. Jason whines and rolls his hips, a rapid-fire curse of, “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” slipping from his rosy lips. 

Tim watches his brow pinch as he lifts off Roman’s cock, grinding back down with force as Tim’s camera clicks. 

“This getting you off, baby?” Roman purrs, tugging and squeezing at the head of Jason’s cock. Tim can’t get a decent shot of it where it’s obscured by the enormity of the crimelord’s hand, but he still appreciates the tremble of Jason’s thighs down the zoom focus. “You like showing off for our guest?” 

“Like,” Jason pants, and pauses to gasp in a hard breath, eyes slipping closed as he picks up a steady rhythm, “showing off for you, daddy.” 

Jason’s knees squeak against the cream leather when he adjusts position to slam down with more fervour. His palms wrapped over Roman’s knees, nails biting into the cashmere-cotton weave as he plunges back on the man’s cock. 

The sound reverberates in Tim’s ears, the quiet squelch and slap of skin every time Jason’s ass meets Roman’s hips. They lose themselves in the motions, in the press of each other’s flesh as Tim watches and immortalises it. He feels unseen, unnoticed as they chase their pleasure, Roman’s teeth leaving glorious indents spackled over Jason’s shoulders, ruby red beneath the drag of Tim’s lens. 

Roman’s hand snaps up after a few long minutes, wrapping over Jason’s windpipe and flattening him back against the crimelord’s chest as he thrusts up into the prostitute, unseating him with the force of his motions. Jason shouts and pants and whines, jaw slack and eyes artfully glazed as Roman’s fingers worry a bruise into his golden complexion. Tim doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. 

“Here’s the money shot,” Roman rumbles with a cruel twist, jacking Jason off with calm surety as the teen clenches down and winds tight, unable to shift beyond the cage of Roman’s limbs. Tim closes on the flex of his biceps, the strain of his wrists where his hands fist in Roman’s trousers. The part of his slick lips, the flutter of his lashes, his depthless eyes, his sweat-streaked hair. 

He sees when Jason crests his orgasm, slamming back onto Roman’s cock and going boneless as the crimelord jerks him back into his lap with animalistic fervour. It takes a few more thrusts before Roman buries himself in Jason’s ass, overstimulating the boy’s erupting cock with every dispassionate slide of his fist as he comes. 

Tim snaps every drop, mesmerised by the sheen of passing lights on Jason’s cum as he shudders and mewls, limp in the larger man’s hold. When the crescendo lapses, Tim feels breathless, choked by the silence. As if any movement will shatter the gorgeous image before him, the still water marred by an unwanted spectator. 

Then Roman digs into his pocket for a handkerchief, cleaning his hand off as Jason collects himself. 

After a few long, rattling breaths, Jason’s head tips forward, his hair coming loose from where it’s plastered to his forehead as he rearranges himself and eases off Roman’s cock with a barely noticeable groan. Tim gets a few more shots of the curve of Jason’s mauled shoulders and the bow of his back as Roman’s cock slips free, and then the teen lifts his gaze, those impossibly green-blue eyes snaring him through the camera. 

Jason doesn’t smile, and that chills Tim more than anything, compels him to lower the lens and swallow hard as Roman ties off the condom and tosses it away. He snaps Jason’s panties back into place as an afterthought, and the prostitute climbs off Roman’s lap to resume his place under Roman’s condoling arm, unruffled but for his flushed cheeks and sweaty hair. 

They ride in silence as Roman straightens his suit and then switches to idly dragging his fingers along the insides of Jason’s trembling thighs, nails snagging in the fishnets. 

The car slows against a curb, Roman cupping Jason’s chin up into a quick, possessive kiss as he shifts to alight from the vehicle. “Be good, baby boy,” he instructs when he pulls back. Doesn’t even acknowledge Tim, pressed into the far corner. “Get me those photos, hmm?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Jason murmurs, his tone adulating to match that soft smile he gives the crimelord. Roman meets it with a smirk, and then the door is snapping closed behind him, the car departing from the sidewalk. 

Jason’s smile drops immediately, his spine easing out of its perfect posture to slump back against the leather seats and rearrange his skirt. He runs a few quick, ineffectual fingers back through his fringe before he lifts those eyes to survey Tim. 

Tim tries to be small. Nearly succeeds, all things considered. The camera feels overheavy in his grip, burning beneath his shaking palms. 

“Any good shots tonight?” Jason asks, and Tim knows he’s not talking about the last four hundred Tim had snapped with Roman in them. 

He glances down at his viewer screen, at the image of Jason sprawled back over Roman’s lap, wrecked. Swallows and returns to the file directory on the camera’s SD card to scroll back through their earlier spoils. 

“Nothing worthwhile,” he admits, and Jason looks disappointed but not surprised. Tim remembers, perking up to add, “But when you had him standing over you, when you were lying back on the bed - that had some potential.” 

“Hmm,” Jason says, noncommittal, but he looks like he’s thinking it over. “I think I know what you mean. Maybe I can convince him to stay while I shower next time. Come out in a towel and drop it. You think you could get a shot like that?” 

Tim chews the inside of his lip and considers. “I’ll need a bigger window than that hotel offers. A good viewpoint too. But yeah, so long as it doesn’t blur, that could be a useful image.” 

Jason gives him a half-coy smile. “Surely a photographer will your skills can manage one clean shot?” 

Tim frowns and glances down at the camera, starting when Jason shifts across the cabin to take the seat beside him. “I’m less concerned about getting the shot right, and more concerned about what we’re going to do if that turns Grayson off the scent.” 

“You think he won’t appreciate me in the nude?” Jason teases in that soothing tone, and it makes Tim’s skin crawl. Jason’s thigh feels hot where it presses against Tim’s jeans. 

“No,” Tim answers honestly, keeping his gaze on the camera viewer. “I just think we need to be careful about this. Play it smart. We don’t want to scare off the fish.” 

Jason hums and considers that, watching him. Then he sighs and shifts. “You’re right, you know. I don’t know what it is about Grayson. Normally I’d have guys his age crawling up my skirt by now. But not him. He’s just so…” 

“He’s good,” Tim mutters, and thinks, _statement of the year._

“Yeah,” Jason sighs forlornly. “He’s good. Wouldn’t be in this situation if he was dirty though, I suppose.” 

“Well,” Tim hedges, and clenches his jaw. “Life sucks.” 

“Life sucks,” Jason agrees, and lets the silence lapse. The car purrs beneath them, chewing up the miles until their chauffeur drops Tim on his doorstep and whisks Jason back to Roman’s private residence for another late-night fling. Sans Tim and his camera. 

“At least Grayson looks good on camera,” Tim mumbles, needing to break the stifling silence. 

“No kidding,” Jason answers with a crooked grin. It’s the most genuine expression Tim’s seen on him all night. “You should see him in person; don’t know what someone with an ass like that is doing with an ass like me. Should’ve stayed well outta Gotham. Got a modeling career maybe. Stripper cop,” he adds with a chortling snort. 

Tim gives him a tittering laugh in response, but he’s not sure it comes out as anything but nervous. The older boy watches him fiddle with the camera for a moment longer, before he reaches out and snatches it from Tim’s cold fingertips. 

“Hey!” he protests, as Jason shimmies over to the other side of the seats, looking the device over. “Jason, please, I need that. Give it back.” 

“Sure thing, shutterbug. Just let me do one thing,” Jason replies without looking up. He’s toggling through the settings, and he gives a triumphant hurrah when he switches to the active shot. He adjusts the camera in his grip, turning it so he’s looking direct into the wide lens. “Where’s the button?” 

Tim hesitates, but gestures to the top left, beneath Jason’s ring finger, and watches as he shifts to press it. He wriggles on the seats, hitching his skirt up a notch to display those meshed thighs. As Tim stares, Jason snags a finger in the neckline of his shirt, stretching the fabric until he can expose and stroke one nipple to hardness with a painted nail, tilting open his throat as he poses. 

The sharp staccato snap of the lens makes Tim jolt, but Jason merely turns the device around to inspect his work, grin growing as he studies it. Then he shuts the device off and hands it back to Tim’s waiting palms. 

“One for the road,” he explains, as the car rolls to a slow stop. 

Tim scrambles for his case, hitching it over one shoulder as he climbs over Jason to fumble for the door handle. He wants to check the camera, to look at the image Jason made - just for _him_ \- but he can’t help but think that would be rude, somehow. 

He pauses on the sidewalk, thumb stroking the power button idly as he thinks it over. “When’s the next meetup?” Tim asks. 

“Tuesday,” Jason replies, sprawling across the bench seat. “Going to try to get Officer Grayson alone in the shower, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Tim croaks, and frets on the pavement. He feels like he should say more, should reassure the boy or something, but the words won’t find him. 

Jason seems to take pity after a moment, leaning out of the car to snag the door and toss Tim a tight-lipped smile. “Enjoy that photo, Tim.” 

“Thanks,” Tim answers, but it’s swallowed up by the sound of the door snapping shut. Then the Rolls pulls away from the curb with its young passenger aboard, leaving Tim shivering in the crisp morning’s air. 

He toggles the power switch and rushes through the directory - gaze skimming over every meticulous close up, every bead of sweat shared between Jason and Roman - to find Jason’s lone photo. 

It’s gorgeous. Angled so the light catches on the hollow of Jason’s throat and accents his narrow waist, trimming it into a soft curve. There’s a coy grin on his lips, something that yanks the air right out of Tim’s chest. Soothes the ache with the low sweep of those lashes, the burning heat of Jason’s bedroom eyes. 

Tim stands there in the cold for what feels like years, staring at the teen. Then he turns and fumbles for the door latch, hoisting his case strap over his shoulder as he bolts past his father’s wheelchair and takes the stairs two at a time. One hand yanking his belt open as he goes. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
